


Extra Ingredients

by ItalicizedPeriod



Category: Powerpuff Girls, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cartoon Science, Crack, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Parent!lock, basically all the cartoon things, cartoon logic, cartoon violence, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4761530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItalicizedPeriod/pseuds/ItalicizedPeriod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock thought John had really wanted a child? What if he decided to create the perfect little girl? And what if something went wrong in the process? A fusion between Sherlock and The Powerpuff Girls.</p><p>Starring:<br/>Sherlock Holmes as The Professor<br/>John Watson as The Doctor*<br/>The Powerpuff Girls as The Superheroes<br/>Mrs Hudson as Not The Housekeeper<br/>Philip Anderson as The Mayor of Townsville<br/>Sally Donovan as the Mayor's Deputy<br/>DCI Greg Lestrade as himself<br/>Molly Hooper as Lestrade's chief forensics officer<br/>Jim Moriarty as Sir Not-Appearing-In-This-Show<br/>London as The City of Townsville (well, sort of)<br/>and<br/>Him as The Embodiment of Evil</p><p>It's rumored that Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Fuzzy Lumkins, Irene Adler, and Mojo Jojo are in talks regarding future appearances.</p><p>* not the Time Lord; that would be too silly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> If you added crack to the sugar before you put it in the cotton candy machine, you would get something that vaguely resembles this fic: cracky, fluffy, probably bad for you, and may not actually even work.
> 
> For falltvseasonsherlock.
> 
> Rating is T mainly for language because John can be a bit swear-y, and because I thought Craig McCracken's original version of Chemical X was too good not to use. Other than language, I will try to keep it consistent with the original content of the Powerpuff Girls cartoon, which had an American TV rating of Y7 (probably G by AO3 standards).
> 
> You don't need to be familiar with The Powerpuff Girls other than realizing it's a cartoon, so expect cartoon physics, cartoon logic, etc. and plots that could be told in an 11 or 22 minute episode. This does, however, assume you are familiar with the BBC version of Sherlock; it's more or less canon-compliant through S3, though it's set some time later.
> 
> Not betaed or Britpicked. Let me know if you want to volunteer for either of those. I'm generally fine with spelling and grammar; what I need is someone to say "Sherlock wouldn't say that" or "your plot appears to follow the flight path of a concussed bee."

When John got home, he found Sherlock in the kitchen, jacket off, but in his usual dark shirt and trousers. He was using their largest soup pot to mix something that John was fairly sure was not soup or even food. The pot was on the kitchen table in the area that John had designated for non-food experiments and that Sherlock had agreed to, and mostly did, use for that purpose. However— “Sherlock, I thought we agreed no experiments in food preparation utensils?” He said it rather mildly. He’d learned to pick his battles, and at least this didn’t smell bad. In fact it smelled rather nice, like honey and some spice or blend of spices he couldn’t identify. Maybe it was food after all.

“I had to, John,” said Sherlock. “I didn’t have anything else big enough for this.” He was rummaging in a cabinet (labeled “Chemicals in this cabinet only!”) for something he couldn’t seem to find.

“What are you working on, anyway?” asked John, peering into the pot. The liquid inside was a sort of pale violet colour, slightly translucent. There were objects floating in it that weren’t quite visible enough to identify. A few bits of shiny, colourful paper had stuck to the inner sides of the pot. One appeared to be star-shaped, another like a heart. The mixture seemed to be bubbling slightly, though there was no heat source John could see.

“Experiment,” said Sherlock, unhelpfully. He at last found what he wanted in the cabinet and pulled it out, nearly dislodging several other containers in the process. It was a small, round stoneware jar, with a brown paper label on it that John could not read at all. John couldn’t exactly place the pleasant, spicy scent that came out of the jar when Sherlock opened it. It wasn’t quite peppery, it wasn’t quite curry, it wasn’t quite like cloves or cinnamon. 

Sherlock, as usual, knew what John was about to ask. “I picked this up while I was… away. It’s a rather rare spice. The label is in Tibetan; I'm not sure it even has an English name.” He carefully measured some of the golden-yellow powder from the jar into the soup pot, where it caused the liquid to froth up briefly before it disappeared into the mixture. “Anyway, what do you have there?” He barely glanced at the paper bag John was holding. “Oh, a lab coat. John, I appreciate the thought, but those things… they never fit properly. They don’t look good on most people.”

John knew that meant “it won’t look cool enough on me,” but that Sherlock would never admit it. He said, “You're starting that new job at the University. If you're going to hang around in chemistry labs, you should look the part. Can you leave that stuff for a minute?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “That was the last ingredient I needed to add. Now it just needs time to… mature.” He stepped back from the counter and turned toward John. "I'm still not sure why I agreed to take that job anyway."

“I'm not either, but at least you'll have access to a well-equipped lab. Close your eyes a minute, love.” Sherlock did so, and let John maneuver him into the lab coat. John buttoned the coat and said, “You can look now.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at himself. The lab coat he was now wearing had the same close-fitting cut as his suits. It even had lapels much narrower than a typical lab coat, and was made of much nicer fabric. He looked like a GQ model, if GQ had ever had anybody model lab coats. He said, “John. This is amazing. Where—?”

“You look amazing,” said John. “I went to your tailor. It does look quite good on you," he added smugly, looking Sherlock up and down. "And you look the part now, Professor Holmes.”

“Why thank you, Doctor Watson. Just how good does it look?”

“This good,” said John, and pushed Sherlock back against the table for a kiss, then ruffled Sherlock’s dark curls.

“John!” Sherlock protested, scowling and ducking away from John's hand, like a cat that wants to be petted right up until it inexplicably doesn't. “Not the hair, not so close to the experiment, you could contaminate it!” He was right; a few loose hairs drifted down in the general direction of the pot.

“Oh, please,” said John, amused. “If you were that worried about contamination, you wouldn’t be doing this in our kitchen anyway.” He reached for Sherlock’s hair again, and Sherlock leaned back, batting John’s hand away. He lost his balance, then caught himself against the worktop, but in the process, one hand flailed out and smacked into the contents of the still-open cabinet. John watched as one container, already near the edge because of Sherlock’s earlier rummaging, wobbled for a moment—and then fell off the edge of the shelf.

In the half-second that John had to try to catch the container, he could see only that it was made of some dull silvery metal, a bit like a large soft drink can, and was marked with a big, black X. He flung out his hand and managed to make contact with the can, but could neither get a grip on it nor stop the sweep of his hand, already in motion; the result was that he ended up batting the can toward the table, where it struck the rim of the pot, much harder than it could have hit anything if he had just let it fall. Maybe that was why the can split open, or maybe the seal had deteriorated, but whatever the reason, it popped open at a seam and began to spray a dark, oily-looking liquid into Sherlock’s concoction.

John and Sherlock both leapt back from the pot as the can fell in. “Well, that’s not good,” said Sherlock, frowning at it.

“What is that stuff?” said John. He slowly eased back toward the pot again and peeked in. Wherever the dark liquid had hit the purple stuff already in the pot, it produced large bubbles, which were iridescent like soap bubbles. John wondered if he was seeing things, because it appeared that when the bubbles popped, there was a little burst of sparkles. Some of the sparkles seemed to be in the shape of bunnies, rainbows, flowers, or hearts, like tiny, elaborate fireworks. It was a rather pretty effect, but it made him wonder if the can had held a hallucinogen. It wouldn’t be the first time Sherlock had brought something like that home.

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock, who had begun poking at the stuff in the pot with a spoon. He fished out the can, which was now half-empty and had stopped spraying, and threw it in the sink.

“You’re not sure? You’re keeping chemicals here when you have no idea what they are?” John was exasperated, heading toward angry.

“I didn’t say I have _no_ idea.” Sherlock avoided looking at John by gazing at his experiment, which was bubbling with increasing vigour. “I, er, acquired it when we were at Baskerville. They just called it ‘Chemical X.’ Though I overheard an American scientist referring to it as ‘a can of whoopass.’”

"A 'can of whoopass?' Sherlock, that's probably some kind of weapon! And that was six years—"

"John—"

"—ago. You don't know what it is, you don't know if it's—"

"John—"

"—stable, you don't know if it was—"

"We need to move away, John!"

John finally realized Sherlock was trying to draw his attention to the stuff in the pot, which had turned a deeper violet colour, almost indigo, and was frothing up madly now, about to overflow. It was also giving off a slight bluish glow. It was a bit unnerving.

"Move. Yeah," he agreed.

They both began to back away from the pot. Hissing sounds were coming from it, and the whole pot began to vibrate as Sherlock said, "I'm not really sure what's happ—"

There was a noise and everything turned white and John passed out.

When John regained consciousness after the explosion (was it an explosion? he wasn’t even sure; everything had turned very bright, and loud, but there didn’t seem to be any fire or smoke) it was because the highest, sweetest little girl’s voice he had ever heard was asking, "Are you guys okay?"

John opened his eyes and was briefly alarmed to see nothing but a sort of blank greenish blur, but quickly realized this was because his face was pressing gently against a green-papered wall. He next realized that he was hanging head down, arms dangling from his shoulders. There was something else wrong about his position but his head was still too fuzzy to place it.

Another voice said, “Of course they’re not okay, look at them!” This voice was also clearly that of a little girl, although a bit lower and rougher than the first voice. If you could imagine how a little girl’s voice would sound if it had been roughened by cigarette smoking but still sounded like a little girl, it sounded a bit like that, except that didn't really make sense, did it? Maybe she overdoes the candy cigarettes, John thought, and then realized he was thinking complete nonsense, and wondered if he could think better if he weren’t upside down.

He discovered that somehow his belt was caught on the horn of the bison skull that hung on the wall between the windows, so that he, too, now hung there like a wall ornament. His weight was suspended painfully by his belt, his body folded backwards through it like a towel on a towel bar, his face against the wall, knees facing out. He writhed, trying to figure a way to get his weight onto his hands so he could get his belt unhooked from the horn. His struggles ended when the horn, with a loud crack, broke off of the skull. He tumbled painfully to the floor, rolling over the edge of the table on the way down. As far as he could tell, though, he wasn’t seriously injured, just shaken up.

He sat up, groaning. The first thing he saw, once he crawled out from behind the table and got his eyes to focus properly, was Sherlock, lying crumpled like a rag doll against his leather chair, upside down—his head and neck on the floor, body propped against the edge of the chair, one leg on the seat and the other hanging limply over the arm. His white lab coat was bunched around his chest where it wasn't splayed over the floor around him. Papers, lab equipment, and broken glass littered the floor, evidently thrown there by the force of the maybe-explosion. John crawled over to him, shouting, “Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right?”

A third little-girl voice said, “Obviously not. Haven’t we already talked about this?” This one sounded bossy and confident, almost arrogant. In fact, John thought, if Sherlock were a little girl, he probably would have sounded exactly like that.

While part of his mind was thinking how weird it was that he was hearing little-girl voices that sounded like Sherlock in his exploded flat, most of John's mind just wanted to hear from the actual Sherlock, whom he had now reached and was checking over for injury.

Sherlock opened his eyes, tried to focus, and said something that sounded like “John?” though it came out sounding sort of strangled because of the way his neck was scrunched up. He allowed his body to slide down to the floor, which he somehow managed to make look graceful in that way that always faintly annoyed John because it shouldn’t be possible to be thrown across a room and slump onto the floor and still look graceful. Sherlock sat up, shaking his head.

John said again, "All right?"

“Fine, yeah, fine, I think. Are you all right?” He leapt to his feet (annoyingly gracefully, again) and reached a hand down to John to help him up.

At the repeated questions, impatient sounds came from the kitchen, but then the first little voice said happily, “Yay! It looks like they _are_ okay!”

Sherlock turned to face the kitchen and froze, staring. He said, “John! It worked—” but interrupted himself to say, very quietly, “This wasn’t _quite_ what I was expecting.” John finished getting to his feet, still holding Sherlock's hand. He turned to look where Sherlock was looking. He hadn’t known to expect anything, so he only stared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for any formatting horribleness. I didn't want to delay this any longer so will fight the formatting fight again later.


	2. Perfect Little Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new residents of 221B are introduced. Sherlock tries to explain where they came from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The broadcast of this episode was delayed due to technical difficulties. We apologize for the inconvenience.
> 
> This episode gets slightly more serious than most will be. But after the serious bit, there's fluff. 
> 
> (Also, formatting still not pretty as I write in Word and I'm still learning how best to transfer to AO3. Please let me know if it's causing serious readability problems, as opposed to just being ugly.)

 

"This wasn’t _quite_ what I was expecting."

 

John was about to ask what, exactly, Sherlock had been expecting. Then he thought maybe that was not a discussion they should have in front of the children. Children! The voices John had heard had obviously come from the little girls who now inexplicably occupied their kitchen.

 

There were three of them, all appearing to be about five or six years old, with largish heads and enormous puppy-dog eyes. They were holding hands with each other and smiling at John and Sherlock. They were dressed identically but for colour, in pastel dresses with black waistbands, white stockings, and black Mary Jane shoes. The one in the middle had long orange hair with a red bow in it and wore a pink dress. The one in the blue dress had blonde hair in two pigtails. The one in green had dark hair in adorable curls that looked like Sherlock's must have looked at that age.

 

"So who are you two?" asked the one in green.

 

John waited for Sherlock to answer, but when Sherlock just stood there blinking, John realized he'd have to start. "I'm John Watson. He's Sherlock Holmes. Er, who—" He wanted to say, "Who the heck are you and why are you in our kitchen?" but it didn't seem exactly the thing to speak to five-year-old girls that way. They got it anyway.

 

"We're the Powerpuff Girls!" they said in unison.

 

The ginger one said, "I'm Blossom!" Hers was the bossy voice.

 

"I'm Bubbles!" said the one in blue, in the tiny sweet voice John had heard first.

 

"And I'm Buttercup!" said the one in green, her voice slightly lower and rougher than the other two, the candy cigarette voice. She also, John now realized, had an American accent.

 

"And we're here to fight crime!" said Blossom.

 

"That's what we do!" said Buttercup.

 

"Duh!" chimed in Bubbles.

 

It was weird, of course, even for someone who lived with Sherlock Holmes, to have an explosion and then find three small children appearing in your kitchen. But that wasn't the weirdest part.

 

The girls weren't just standing in the kitchen. They were hovering in midair, above the pot on the kitchen table. They also appeared to be glowing slightly, although the glow was fading as John watched. That was weird too, but it also wasn't the weirdest part.

 

Buttercup asked, "Which one of you two is responsible for us?"

 

Blossom said, in her bossy voice, "The one in the lab coat. Holmes. Chemistry professor. Obvious."

 

Buttercup looked them up and down and said, "Oh. Yeah."

 

It felt, to John, remarkably similar to the times Sherlock and Mycroft had looked him over for five seconds and then told him his entire day. Experiencing that from five-year-old girls, _that_ was the weirdest part.

 

Bubbles wasn't to be left out, though. She looked at John for a couple of seconds. "Oh, you're a doctor!" she announced.

 

"Er, yeah," said John.

 

"And you're married to him!" She was pointing at Sherlock.

 

" _Engaged_ ," said Blossom impatiently. Bubbles looked at them again and nodded.

 

"Yes." John stood up straighter. He discovered his hand was still in Sherlock's and Sherlock was clutching it tightly.

 

Sherlock finally found his voice. "How are you doing that?"

 

"Well," said Bubbles, "we just observe details and apply logical—"

 

"No, not that, anyone who isn't an idiot can do that," Sherlock said impatiently. "That!" he said, waving an arm vaguely at the empty air below the girls.

 

"We're superheroes. We have superpowers," said Blossom, as if it should have been obvious, again reminding John of Sherlock.

 

" _Ultra_ -superpowers!" added Buttercup, sounding ready to go fight something immediately.

 

"That's how we fight crime—and the forces of evil!" Bubbles finished.

 

"And we're staying with you," Blossom said positively.

 

"What?" John asked.

 

"So, you're our dads," said Bubbles softly. "Aren't you?"

 

"Of course," said Sherlock, before John could say "what?" again.

 

"Yes!" said Buttercup, doing a brief victory dance.

 

***

 

Two hours later, the girls had been fed, washed, and put to bed, all three snuggled together in John's old bed in the upstairs bedroom. Sherlock had appeared to take it as entirely settled that the girls would stay with them, and while he hadn't seemed completely certain of how to care for five-year-old children, he hadn't let that stop him from doing it. Well, he had mostly told John to do it, but he had at least put the kettle on for tea (which John made), cleared away the worst of the broken glass (leaving the rest for John to clear up later), and gone up to make sure the bedroom was safe for children and did not contain leftover experiments (letting John take care of making up the bed).

 

Now that the girls were asleep, Sherlock was trying to slip out the front door unnoticed. In his most commanding voice, John said, "Sherlock."

 

Sherlock looked a bit sheepish. "I'm just going to go explain to Mrs Hudson—"

 

"No, you're going to explain to me."

 

Sherlock sighed and made to sit in his chair.

 

"You could also help me clean up." There was still paper all over the sitting room floor and lab equipment scattered everywhere—John had shoved some of it aside to make enough space on the table to feed the three girls, but most of it was still where it had been knocked about. Sherlock started aimlessly picking up pieces of paper, more to avoid looking at him, John thought, than from any intent to clean. For a while it was silent other than the clinking sounds of John collecting scattered items of glassware. "I'll start then, shall I?" he finally said. "You said this wasn't what you expected. What, exactly, were you expecting, then?"

 

"I was trying…" Sherlock hesitated, then stopped and actually looked at John. "I wanted to create the perfect little girl."

 

"What?" said John, incredulous.

 

Sherlock spoke rapidly, the way he did when he was laying out his deductions about a case. "I researched it, John. All the sources seemed to indicate that 'sugar, spice, and everything nice' would be the appropriate ingredients—"

 

"Ingredients?"

 

"—only I thought honey, because it is mostly sugars but has a richer, more complex flavour, and of course I used the rarest, most interesting spices I could find, because it wouldn't do for your child to be ordinary or boring—"

 

"—wait, whose—what—"

 

"—and 'everything nice,' that was harder, I'll explain later, but I did include some of your DNA, because you're nice, and after all it was to be your—"

 

"Sherlock! What are you talking about?"

 

"John, I…" Sherlock seemed to have suddenly run out of words.

 

"Wait, do I want to know how you got my—"

 

"No," Sherlock said hastily.

 

"Yeah, probably best not," John decided. "But you said 'your child.' What did you mean, my child?"

 

Sherlock looked away, then walked over to stare out the window as he spoke. "Two years ago when… You were looking forward to having a child, despite everything. You seemed… sad… when it… didn’t happen. Understandably."

 

"Well, yes, among other things." John didn't really want to get into the details any more than Sherlock seemed to. The less said, the better, about the woman who wasn't really Mary Morstan and wasn't really carrying John's child.

 

"So I thought if I could create a child for you, a perfect little girl, you would be…"

 

"I would be what?"

 

"Happy," Sherlock whispered.

 

"I am happy, you git," John said in a distinctly not-happy voice. He was rhythmically clenching and unclenching one hand.

 

Sherlock turned to look at him, looked at the hand, and raised one sarcastic eyebrow. Then, as he saw John's face clouding over further, he dropped the eyebrow and just looked nervous.

 

John said, "Okay, okay, yes, I'm a bit angry right now. But in general, yeah, I am happy with you. Without needing to…This—Sherlock, this is something we should have discussed first!" His voice had risen to a shout.

 

"I suppose I… got a bit carried away."

 

"Think that might be an understatement! I mean, three? Just one child would have been enough. More than enough, really, since I wasn't exactly planning on having even one show up today!"

 

"Well, I did say the result wasn't what I expected. I intended one little girl, not three, and I certainly wasn’t expecting the ability to fly, or… or whatever it is they can do."

 

"No, I imagine not."

 

"It must be the result of the Chemical X. I wonder what would happen if I used different amounts. That would be an interesting experi—"

 

"Really not a good idea, Sherlock," John said. He took a couple of deep breaths. "So, you said you used my DNA, but Blossom sounds so much like you it's uncanny. Not just how she speaks, but what she says. And Buttercup looks as much like you as a little girl can."

 

"Well. I did tell you not to ruffle my hair like that. Some of my DNA must have got in the mix when my hair fell in."

 

John sighed. So, not just three little girls with superpowers, but three little _Sherlocks_ with superpowers. And they were just going to… live here now? He found he was still clenching his hand.

 

"The blonde one kind of looks like you, though," Sherlock offered, and then, as John turned and reached for his coat, "Where are you going?"

 

"Going out for a bit. I need some air. Or to think. Something." He sighed again. He was still angry, but... "Maybe while I'm out you could explain all this to Mrs Hudson—"

 

"What exactly am I telling her, John?" asked Sherlock, sarcastically. "That we have young visitors? Whom we're going to kick out because you—"

John recognized this as the kind of sarcasm that meant Sherlock was actually worried and uncertain. He was obviously having trouble reading John's mood, which was no surprise since John was confused himself. He knew what would happen in the end, though. He would give in, because it was Sherlock, and didn't he always give in? He interrupted before Sherlock could get too wound up. "And while I'm out I'll go to the shop. If we're going to have five-year-olds living here, there's a lot of stuff we'll need. More milk, to start with."

 

"John, are you…"

 

"It's fine," said John as he headed out the door. "Or it will be. At least I'll never be bored." He could feel Sherlock's smile at that. It was like the sun on his back.

 

***

 

By the time John returned with bags of food and little hairbrushes and stuffed toys and a load of other things that he'd thought they would need, he had calmed down a lot. Sherlock, sitting in his chair with his hands steepled in front of his face, had gone back to looking nervous.

 

"Mrs Hudson was pleased. Excited, even."

 

"I can tell," said John, seeing the papers tidied into stacks instead of on the floor, the broken glass entirely gone, and a cardboard box containing all the lab equipment that had been on the floor plus most of what had been on the table. "You'll have to learn to keep things this clean yourself, you know. Your experiments can't be in the kitchen any more. We have a lot of child-proofing to do." He started putting things away in the kitchen.

 

"John, they're obviously very intelligent children, it's not as if they would…" He stopped himself. "You're right, though. I talked with Mrs Hudson about taking over 221C for my home lab space."

 

"Really? You weren't willing to consider that before."

 

"Well, that was before. We have new responsibilities now."

 

John walked over to Sherlock's chair and held out a hand to Sherlock. "Come here, love."

 

Sherlock took his hand and stood up. "I'm sorry." He said quietly, as if joking, "Still going to marry me?"

 

John could see that, despite the joking tone, there was real fear in Sherlock's eyes. "Yeah, of course I'm still going to marry you, you madman." He pulled Sherlock to him and wrapped his arms around his narrow waist. "As if I could let you go." Sherlock relaxed into the embrace. "We'll figure it all out, yeah?"

 

"Yes," said Sherlock, face buried in John's hair.

 

"It's been a long day," John sighed. "Let's go to bed."

 

First they went up to check on the girls. The three were sleeping peacefully. John tucked a small plush toy near each little hand. They left quietly, leaving the door open just enough to be sure they would hear the girls if they woke in the night.

 

***

 

They were awakened early the next morning by three little girls zipping into their room and then hovering next to their bed, all chattering over each other. "Professor! Doctor! Time to get up! Breakfast! Come on! Professor!"

 

John sat up and yawned. "Okay, okay, give us a minute."

 

Sherlock sat up too, looked startled for about half a second, then jumped out of bed—as usual, going from lethargic to energetic almost instantly. He pulled on his dressing gown and disappeared down the hall toward the kitchen, the girls flitting around him like manic butterflies as he went. John got up more slowly and followed, glad it was his day off.

 

He found the kettle heating, the girls sitting at the table, and Sherlock looking disdainfully at a box of cereal. "Lucky Captain Rabbit King Nuggets? Really, John? Who would eat this mess of over-sweetened, artificially colored, ridiculously named—"

 

"We do," said Blossom haughtily.

 

"It's the best cereal!" said Bubbles.

 

"Yeah!" said Buttercup. "Where's the milk?"

 

John looked smug at having successfully predicted the girls' tastes, and went to get the milk. When he turned back from the fridge, Sherlock was looking at his mobile.

 

"Case, John! We have a case. Let's go!" Sherlock looked at the girls, at John pouring milk. "Er… as soon as you've all had breakfast."

 

"And you," said John. "I'll make us some toast," he added, before Sherlock could complain about the cereal. "But what do we do about…" He looked at the three girls.

 

"Obviously, we'll come with you," announced Blossom. "We fight crime, remember?"

 

"Va'f wa we oo!" Buttercup said around a mouthful of cereal.

 

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow at John.

 

John shrugged helplessly. "I guess that's settled then? We all go?"

 

"Duh!" said Bubbles.


	3. A Fuzzy in Pink, part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have a case. The girls want to help. Some villains appear and plots are set into motion. There may be a bad cabbie involved again, but this one's definitely not a genius.
> 
> Introducing DCI Greg Lestrade and his chief forensics officer, Molly Hooper. Guest starring Fuzzy Lumkins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, apologies for the very very late posting. Please forgive a relatively new writer for not knowing how long it would turn out or how long it would take. Also, fluff kept just sort of happening!
> 
> Second, nobody dies in this story, though it is loosely (very loosely, also ridiculously) based on A Study in Pink. So I wanted to get Molly out of the morgue, and there was a vacancy on Lestrade's team. She's probably better at it than Anderson was anyway.
> 
> Third, the No Trespassing whitebeam is made up but was inspired by a species of tree called the [No Parking whitebeam](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sorbus_admonitor).
> 
> Finally, this is a bit of a spoiler and yet I think it will be detrimental to the reading experience if you have the wrong idea, so I'll go ahead and say it: Jim Moriarty is mentioned but does not appear in this episode. At the moment I have no plans for him to appear even in later episodes.
> 
> Warnings for cartoon violence, ridiculous fluff, and serious injury to a musical instrument.

On the porch of a tumbledown shack in the forest outside Townsville, a large, vaguely humanoid creature dozed in a rocking chair. It vaguely resembled some of the larger species of baboon, but had a bulbous greenish nose, was covered in pink fur, and had antenna-like appendages on its head. It wore blue denim overalls. An unlit corncob pipe dangled from its lips and an old-fashioned blunderbuss shotgun lay where it had been casually tossed to the ground. Near the chair, but propped more carefully against the wall, stood a banjo. The peace of the scene was disturbed only occasionally by the creature's snores and by the grunting and snuffling of the pig that wallowed happily in a puddle nearby. That peace was apparently maintained by the many signs nailed to trees with messages like "No Trespassing" and "Keep Out This Means You!"

Somewhere else, an even odder creature looked on. He resembled popular depictions of a devil, but had lobster-like claws instead of hands, and wore thigh length black boots. His skin was almost the same color as his garments, which were red, but had fluffy pink touches as well. The whites of his eyes were not white but green. He had a beard and might also have been wearing makeup, with his long eyelashes and pink cheeks—or perhaps he was simply made that way. No one knew for certain when it came to this mysterious being. What was certain was that he was evil. So evil, so sinister, so unutterably vile that none dared speak his name. He was known only as: Him.

He observed the dozing pink creature and, in a bizarre, singsong falsetto, announced, "Boring! There's simply _not_ enough crime in Townsville, thanks to that"—and here his voice turned to a threatening growl—"Sherlock Holmes." Continuing in the falsetto again, he mused, "Even the other villains have got boring. Look at Fuzzy, just _napping_. Of course I've already begun working on the Sherlock problem, but I think it's time to shake things up a bit." He waved a claw in a circle.

In the clearing, tendrils of red mist began to drift out of the trees, solidifying in a streamer that went straight for the pig. When the mist touched the pig, the pig's eyes popped wide and it squealed loudly. It began running in circles around the small cabin, squealing as it went.

Of course the noise awoke the pink creature—Fuzzy—who jumped from the rocking chair, shouting. "What's wrong with you, pig? Now y'all stop all that squealin'!" The pig, oblivious, continued to run, and Fuzzy began chasing it, with many cries of "hey!" and "stop!" and "git offa there!" as the pig circled, running heedlessly through the mud and over the porch, and even over Fuzzy's rocker, on its various laps around the shack.

The chase ended tragically. The pig darted over the porch, between the rocking chair and the wall, knocking over the banjo. Fuzzy had almost caught up with the pig at that moment, but he tripped over the shotgun. Time seemed to slow down for Fuzzy as he fell, inevitably, toward his banjo. He had time to think, "Stupid pig runnin' like that!" and "Stupid boomstick lyin' in my way like that!" (never mind he'd tossed it there himself) and time to yell "Noooooo!" but he still—couldn't—stop what was clearly about to happen. There was a tremendous, twanging crash.

When the dust cleared, Fuzzy sat on the porch cradling his banjo. Its neck was broken clean through, much like Fuzzy's heart. "Oh, Joe!" he sobbed, clutching the banjo to his chest. "Joe, Joe, what'll I ever do without ya, Joe?" The pig still squealed its way around the cabin, unheeded, as Fuzzy wept over his wounded banjo.

***

Later, somewhere in Townsville…

The sign over the door read, "Banjos Is Us." Inside, Fuzzy was wringing his hands anxiously as a spotty, dull-faced youth was speaking in an almost robotically dull, monotone voice.

"Yes Mr Lumkins we can fix it the repair will cost five hundred pounds."

"Five hundred pounds!" screamed Fuzzy, leaning over and pounding his fists on the counter. "I ain't got that kinda money! Where am I goin' to get five hundred pounds?"

The youth cowered a moment, but then, still dully, said, "Uh maybe you could get a job."

***

The black cab screeched to a halt, scraping off a wing mirror against a lamppost, bashing into a parked car, and running one wheel up onto the pavement. The passenger, a woman in business clothes, got out. "Do they not give you driving lessons?" she said, scowling, as she pulled a wallet from her bag, threw some notes at Fuzzy, and stalked off. Fuzzy looked gloomily at the notes. He wasn't sure how much five hundred pounds actually was (he had difficulty counting past three, or even as far as three if he was being honest) but he knew it was a lot. He compared his mental image of a very large stack of money with the very small stack he'd collected so far; it did not look promising.

"Oh, Joe," he said mournfully to the broken banjo lying in the seat beside him. "This is goin' to take a mighty long time." Then he remembered the woman's wallet. He'd seen lots more money in it than the small amount she had taken out to pay him. His face lit up. "Joe! I gots me a idea!" He checked that his boomstick was still tucked under the seat.

***

John, Sherlock, and the girls arrived at the crime scene to find the victim, a young man, sitting at the back of an ambulance being treated for a head wound.

Lestrade intercepted them before they could get close. "Who's this, then?" he asked, when he saw three small children hovering around Sherlock and John.

John said, "This is Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup," pointing each one out.

"And why—" began Lestrade.

"Obvious," interrupted Blossom.

"We're adopting them. Obviously," Sherlock said, only half paying attention as he scanned the area.

"I didn't know you two were even considering…"

"Er, well, the opportunity came about quite suddenly," said John.

"Anyway, that doesn't explain why you've brought little girls to a crime scene."

"We're the Powerpuff Girls!" Blossom announced. "We fight crime!"

"Ooookay. Well, I'm Greg Lestrade, and I'm not at all sure I can allow—"

"Aw, come on," said Buttercup.

"DCI Lestrade, I assure you—" began Blossom in her most haughty, Sherlocky tones.

"Pleeeease?" said Bubbles. "We promise to behave."

"Well," said Lestrade, "this isn't a gruesome one, so I guess they can stay. But don't touch anything, and stay well back from—"

It was too late for him to say anything else as the three had already zipped off excitedly.

"So you said the victim doesn't remember anything? And nothing taken?" asked John.

"No. He did look in his wallet a bit ago and he thinks he had some cash on him that's gone now."

"Hm," said Sherlock, and stalked off to talk to the victim.

"So what's with that coat?" asked Lestrade, nodding toward Sherlock. Sherlock had, for some reason, decided to wear the lab coat this morning.

"He's taken a new job," John said, "something Mycroft found for him. He'll be—"

"Professor!" yelled Blossom, dashing over to Sherlock with something in her hand. "Look what we found!"

"—teaching chemistry," John finished.

"'Professor Holmes,' eh? Sounds sort of right for him, doesn't it?"

"It does," said John with a grin, "though I'm not sure how the actual job will work out." Lestrade nodded, knowing exactly what John meant. Chemistry research: good. Dealing with students: perhaps not. The two began walking over to where the girls were fluttering about Sherlock excitedly while the ambulance attendant was trying to get them to give her patient some space.

*** Six weeks earlier ***

"I've obtained a job offer for you. I think you should give it serious consideration."

"I have a job. And if it's more of that MI6 business, don't even bother, because I'm not leaving John again."

"Don't you think it's time to grow up and take on something that's a bit more… stable?"

Sherlock glared, but didn't actually kick Mycroft out of the flat. He knew Mycroft would understand: Sherlock would hear him out, but only because it was the fastest way to get Mycroft to leave him alone.

Mycroft said, "It's a chemistry professorship at Townsville University. You'd teach classes, conduct student labs, hold office hours, the usual sort of thing. You would be able to do research. Your hours would be fairly flexible, so you could still take a private case now and then."

" _Hours_ ," Sherlock said with disgust. "What would _possess_ you to think I want a normal job, with hours, and rules, and bosses, and performance reviews? And—and _people?_ "

"You're about to be married, Sherlock. Don't you think John will expect you to settle down to something safer, with a more reliable income? After all—"

Sherlock was about to interrupt Mycroft to explain how completely absurd that was—John? Safer?—but got distracted by the part of his mind that was observing, as always. He was noticing it was almost as though two voices spoke the words in unison. There was Mycroft's, of course, but there was something else, with a rather sing-song quality, and wavering between a strange falsetto and a deeper growl. With a shock, he realized that, although it wasn't identical, it reminded him a lot of Jim Moriarty.

As Mycroft—and the other voice?—nattered on about _responsibility_ and _supporting a family_ and the like, Sherlock wondered at his irrational thoughts. There was no one else in the flat, the telly was off, his laptop was closed. There was no way he was hearing another voice, and even if he was, it certainly wasn't Moriarty, because Moriarty was dead. Still, Sherlock found himself agreeing to take the University appointment, and, disturbingly, couldn't explain why even to himself.

"Very good," said Mycroft, and Sherlock again seemed to hear Moriarty saying the words along with Mycroft. It sounded very much as he remembered Moriarty saying the same two words that night at the pool when John had almost—. He stopped before he could think about that night and the other ways it could have ended, either better or worse than the reality. Right now, he didn't know how he could be hearing something like that. He hated not knowing.

When John got home a bit later, Mycroft had left but Sherlock was still pacing around the flat, thinking. He barely noticed John's hello kiss.

"John, do you think I should get a job?"

"Don't you have one?" asked John, puzzled.

"Yes, but—a more traditional job?" Sherlock said, and then launched into an explanation of Mycroft's visit. He left out the part about the strange voice, because he didn't want to admit he didn't understand it.

John said, "You're telling me that Mycroft's argument was that I would want you to have a 'steadier' job so you could be sure of supporting a husband—me?"

"It did seem a bit silly—"

"It's ridiculous!" said John. "It's a rather outdated—I mean, how would that sort of view ever have applied to a couple of childless, middle-aged people who both had professions before we even met? I'm a doctor; I was in the army; I'm hardly some delicate flower who needs to be supported by someone else!" John's voice was rising.

"I know, John," said Sherlock, thinking it was amazing how Mycroft could irritate people even when he wasn't present.

"I can support myself, thank you very much, and I like helping you with the work you already do, and we already make enough with that to support us both even if I wanted to be supported. Which I don't!" He paused—Sherlock could see him trying to rein in his temper before it got out of hand—and then relaxed, sighing. "You must have been having a bad day even to listen to him. What was he thinking?"

"Mycroft? Probably has some ulterior motive; he usually does. The bigger question is what I was thinking. I'm still not sure why I agreed to it."

"You… agreed to it? Are you feeling all right, then?"

"I feel a bit strange, actually." But he waved a hand dismissively. "Ah, must just be the lingering effects of having to see my brother."

"Maybe," said John. He looked Sherlock over with one of his doctor looks. "Well," he said, "if you want to tell him you've changed your mind, I'm certainly not going to stop you."

"Perhaps I should. The students will all be idiots and the other faculty are probably worse. The lab access would be nice, though."

"You could always try it for a while, I suppose. I mean, someday maybe we won't be able to dash around taking cases so much. Could be good to have a backup plan—"

"Oh, no, John. If I can't do my work any more I'll retire and do something completely different. Move to the country and keep bees or something. But that's a long way off. Let's think about something else."

"You had something specific in mind?" asked John, with a very particular look, not at all doctorly this time.

"Yes, in fact, I did," said Sherlock, who was remembering why he was in love with John and forgetting all about annoying brothers and inexplicable voices.

But he never told Mycroft he wouldn't take the job.

***

Lestrade and John walked up as the young man was explaining, "Well, I was planning to take a cab, but even if I did, I'm sure I had more cash on me than the fare would have been, so I should have some left." Even John could see some of what he knew Sherlock was seeing: jeans and trainers, but everything designer—high-end watch, and sunglasses that John was pretty sure cost more than he made in a week. The kid was obviously well off, so it was entirely plausible he'd been carrying a lot of cash.

"It's weird, though. If someone took my cash, why wouldn't they take anything else? Like my watch?"

"Maybe they're not very smart?" said Blossom.

"Who would be that stupid?" said Sherlock. "More likely they were in a hurry. Now, Blossom, you said you found something?"

"Yes. Look at these leaves."

"Ah, yes, from the so-called 'No Trespassing' whitebeam tree, which—"

"—only grows in rural areas, not in London!" interrupted Blossom.

"Yes," said Sherlock, looking surprised and a tiny bit annoyed at someone else jumping in with the sort of thing he usually said.

"And the leaves were stuck in this mud!" said Buttercup. "You can test it in your lab and see where it came from!"

"And I found this pretty pink fur!" said Bubbles, holding it up. "I wonder what kind of creature has fur like this?"

"Very odd, indeed," said Sherlock, after pulling out his magnifier and examining the fur. "Now go ask Molly for some evidence bags," he said, pointing at the woman who was examining some tyre tracks on the ground a short distance away.

"Molly?" Blossom asked.

Lestrade smiled and said, "Molly Hooper, my chief forensics officer," as he waved in her direction. The girls darted over to talk to her, and John heard them introducing themselves as he turned his attention back to the victim's head wound.

"Obviously done with some sort of blunt instrument," John said. "But there's something else… a faint odour of gun oil?"

"Hmm," said Sherlock. "Obviously you're not a gun owner," he added, again looking the victim up and down.

"No, mate. Never touched a gun in my life."

Sherlock turned away suddenly. "Come on, John. Girls! Lestrade, this is barely a six, not sure why you called us." He ignored Lestrade's explanation as he stalked off, John following as usual, and the girls zipping along and catching up.

***

On the way home, Buttercup said, "Did you see the way those two were looking at each other? Ugh."

"Who?" John asked.

"Miss Hooper and DCI Lestrade!" Bubbles said. "It's so cute!"

"Ugh!" Buttercup repeated.

"They did seem unable to keep their eyes off one another," said Blossom.

"Really?" asked Sherlock.

"I think they're in love," Bubbles said dreamily.

"Wait, they're seeing something you didn't?" John asked Sherlock.

"Of course I did, have done for weeks. I was just impressed that the girls saw it."

The girls all looked very pleased with themselves.

"How did I not see it?" John wondered.

"Doctor," said Blossom slowly, "I think it's because you weren’t looking. Unless you're really focused on something else, you can't keep your eyes off the Professor."

Sherlock and Buttercup sniggered. John opened his mouth and then closed it again because he couldn't think of anything to say.

Blossom said, "Oh, you're nearly as bad, Professor." It was John's turn to giggle at Sherlock's startled look. Buttercup laughed out loud.

***

Sherlock jogged up the stairs from 221C, where he'd begun moving his lab equipment. "I found pollen that confirmed a rural origin…" he began to announce, but stopped at the sight that met his eyes. There were toys all over the sitting room floor—how had they got so many toys so quickly?—but the three girls were not playing now. They were asleep on the sofa. Buttercup was leaning against Blossom who was leaning against the sofa arm. Bubbles was curled up next to them, clutching the stuffed purple octopus toy they'd given her last night. There was a lavender blanket draped over them, obviously by John, though Sherlock didn't remember them having a blanket like that. It was all rather…adorable, at least to a person who allowed sentiment, which Sherlock had become more prone to do in the last few years.

"Seemed to be time for an afternoon nap," John said quietly as he walked over to put an arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders. He'd thought John was still upset with him about the whole business of creating children without discussing it first, but as John looked at the sleeping girls, he mostly looked… at peace. Happy, even.

"So where did all this…" He waved a hand at the toys.

"A load of stuff got delivered while you were downstairs. Toys, clothes, everything. I suppose this means your brother approves."

Sherlock scowled. Interfering busybody. "What about you, John?"

"Me?"

"Do you… approve?"

"Well, it's all still a bit unexpected, but then it always is with you, isn't it? Suppose that's why I like it." His eyes got very soft as he looked at the girls. "Amazing how fast I've got attached to them. I suppose I do approve."

Sherlock was pleased, as he'd found himself growing rather attached to them as well. But he still worried. "Are we all right, then?" he asked, hating himself for needing the reassurance but needing it too much not to ask.

"Yeah, of course we are. Of course." John turned to embrace him fully, sliding his other hand into Sherlock's hair. At the touch, Sherlock let go of tension he hadn't even realized he was holding. He wrapped both arms around John and they just stood, enjoying the quiet moment, enjoying the contact.

Sherlock's phone rang, interrupting the moment and waking the girls. "Lestrade's got another one. This one's not conscious. Let's go."

 


	4. A Fuzzy in Pink, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case is resolved, more or less. The bad cabbie is definitely not a genius. Contains crack and ever-more-ridiculous fluff. Doctor Watson really appreciates Professor Holmes's lab coat. Now with pictures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late broadcast again. There were technical difficulties involving an unhappy computer hard drive. Then, just when I decided to post what I had and leave the ending fluff for a bonus chapter, my internet went out, so I went ahead and finished the fluff.
> 
> For people who've never seen The Powerpuff Girls:  
> The voice of Him is really hard to describe in writing; the best way I can tell you is that the first time I watched the pool scene in TGG, I seriously wondered whether Andrew Scott might have voiced Him. He didn't, but there are definitely similarities. Here is [someone's video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhtf2P6IgqA) that has a good example of the weird way Him uses his voice.
> 
> It's not a good example of his usual appearance (he's in the bath in the video) but I've got pictures of the villains for this story arc. They'll be [on the Tumblr post for this chapter](http://italicized-period.tumblr.com/post/130746650821/extra-ingredients-chapter-4-italicizedperiod) until I figure out how to add them in AO3.
> 
> Still not betaed or Britpicked, but really for Britpick fails I'm blaming it on the fact that this is a fusion and some American elements inevitably got in, even though I tried to set it in a more British version of Townsville.
> 
> Warnings continue for cartoon violence, ridiculous fluff, and serious injury to a musical instrument.

 

Molly met them at the crime scene while Lestrade was talking to the ambulance attendants. "Hello, you three," she said to the chorus of greetings from the girls. "So, it's _Professor_ Holmes, now, is it?" Sherlock nodded. "That's not exactly what I expected from you—I mean, not that I think you can't do it, just—sorry."

"It's fine, Molly. It's not entirely what I expected myself. Now, what have we got?"

"Well, it looks quite similar to the last one. Another secluded alley. Victim found with a head wound, more of the same leaves found. Her name is Victoria Clovis."

The girls had been flitting around the scene. "Look, more pink fur!" said Bubbles, pointing out where the fur was caught on a bit of protruding brickwork.

They joined Lestrade and John. John had been permitted to examine the victim as long as he stayed out of the way of the attendants who were preparing her for transport. She was a well-dressed, fortyish woman who clearly, by her jewellery, had even more money than the first victim.

"Pretty!" said Bubbles, looking at the woman's sparkly jewellery. "But the thief isn't very smart to leave it behind."

"I don't think this was robbery," said Sherlock.

"Look at this, Sherlock," John said. "This looks like old-fashioned black powder around the head injury."

"And yet, she clearly wasn't shot," said Lestrade. "Are you saying someone hit her with a gun?"

"If the bad guy had a gun, why hit her instead of just shooting her? Could he have been trying not to hurt the victims too much?" Blossom asked.

"Maybe he didn't like loud noises!" said Bubbles.

"Well, if it wasn't robbery, and it wasn't to hurt her, then what was it?" asked John.

"I don't know," said Sherlock. "It doesn't make sense!"

"I think he was just really stupid," said Buttercup.

The victim was being loaded into the ambulance. "We need to speak to her as soon as she wakes up," Sherlock said to Lestrade.

"Well, you can go to the hospital, but it's up to the doctors when you can talk to her."

"Let's go," Sherlock began but was interrupted by his phone chirping. He read the text and swore under his breath. John made a mental note to talk to him about language around children. "I forgot—I have to go to the University and meet with Dr Hunter."

"Wow. You're just going? No trying to avoid it? Not that I'm complaining, but it seems unusual for you."

"Well, maybe I don't want to make her angry my very first day?" John gave him a look. "John, I can't shake the feeling that there's something _off_ about the whole thing. That I agreed to it, that Mycroft even suggested it to me. So I do want to check it out, even if a meeting with my supervisor isn't the most compelling way to spend the afternoon. So. I've got to go, and I need you to go talk to the victim."

"Yeah, all right," said John, as Sherlock spun away to look for a cab. "Hey."

"Yes?" said Sherlock, turning back. "Oh," he said at John's raised eyebrow. He came back over and gave John a quick kiss before dashing off again, smiling.

Somewhere, the creature known only as Him looked on with glee. Sherlock Holmes, distracted. His plan was working!

***

John walked the short distance to Townsville Hospital, figuring it would allow time for the victim to be settled in and stabilized, and also that it would allow the girls to work off some energy. They alternated between hovering around him chattering and flying away to point out things they had noticed—a bakery with a window full of cakes, an interesting tree, pretty flowers, and so on. The way they swooped about reminded him of barn swallows—or perhaps a magpie, in Bubbles' case, as she was sure to notice anything sparkly or shiny.

When Lestrade arrived and they were finally allowed in to see Ms Clovis, John made the girls wait outside the room. They were sweet but he thought they could be a bit overwhelming. Ms Clovis wasn't able to tell them much, though. She, like the first victim, didn't remember anything, probably as a result of the head injury. Some cash was missing from her handbag, but nothing else had been taken.

"Except maybe my hat?" she said, slightly confused. "I was wearing a hat, but I would have taken it off in the cab. Maybe I just left it behind."

"Oh, you took a cab?"

"Well, I don't, I don't remember taking one, but I always take a cab when I go to lunch on Fridays, so I suppose I must have?"

 _Really?_ thought John. _Cabs, again? Surely not._ Surely it was just a coincidence. After all, lots of people took cabs in Townsville, especially if they had plenty of money as both victims did.

***

Fuzzy was looking for another fare when he heard the voice coming from the radio in his cab. "Hello, Fuzzy Lumkins!" it said in a cheerful falsetto. "Quite an interesting… method… you've chosen to restore your poor banjo."

"My poor Joe!" Fuzzy agreed. His initial reaction had been to shout about this misuse of his radio, which he considered a trespass upon his property, but he recognized the voice. He had dealt with Him, who was significantly more evil than Fuzzy, and didn't want to annoy Him.

"You ought to be _careful_ ," the falsetto voice warbled. "You don't want to wind up in jail—" and now he growled low "—again!"

"But my—"

"You know," sang Him, lying, "there's really only one person out there who could catch you."

"Who—who's that?"

"Sherlock Holmes, of course! And I happen to know where he is right now. Why don't you go and give him the same treatment you've been giving your other fares? Just be sure you hit him a _little_ bit harder than you hit the others."

"You mean…"

"Yes," came the reply, growling again. "Just make certain Sherlock Holmes will never get in our way again!"

***

Sherlock left the meeting with his new boss, feeling unsettled. He shouldn't have done it, he knew he shouldn't, but he still couldn't stop himself sometimes. He wondered if he would ever get used to how upset people got when you just told them the truth about themselves. Well, it was done now, too late to take it back. He sighed and tried to call John, but his phone seemed to be off. Perhaps he was still at the hospital. He began texting as he waved down a taxi and got in. "Baker Street," he said without really looking at the driver.

Meeting over. Find anything out? SH

Just that it's the same as the first victim. Cash taken, nothing else, doesn't remember what happened, thinks she might have taken a cab.

Surely you're not suggesting another cabdriver turned criminal. Angelo's later? I think he'd like to meet the girls. SH

As he sent the text, though, Sherlock glanced up at the driver. He saw a head, shoulder, and arm covered in pink fur. On the dashboard was a photograph of a pink creature holding a banjo, with whitebeam trees in the background. He could see the calluses on the driver's left hand: he obviously played, so although Sherlock couldn't see the driver's face, he must be the creature in the photograph. And there was an old-fashioned blunderbuss resting against the muddy leg of the driver's overalls. It was the kind that would use the type of powder John had noticed around the victim's head wound. A placard indicated that this driver had the unlikely name of Fuzzy Lumkins.

John's reply arrived:

I know, ridiculous thought. Must just be coincidence. Yes to Angelo's. Just be careful, love.

Might be a bit late to be careful, actually. SH

Oh, no. Please tell me you did not just get in a cab with another serial killer.

Well, not on purpose. And he hasn't actually killed anyone. SH

Yet. Where are you?

Sherlock texted John with what he knew and his best guess at where they were headed, then sent the same to Lestrade with a brief explanation.

***

John swore loudly as he read Sherlock's text. The girls looked at one another: amusement, because a grownup just broke the rules, but also just a little fear, because they weren't quite sure what was going on, but they could see John was upset.

"Sorry, sorry!" John said, seeing their look.

Bubbles asked, "What's wrong, Doctor?"

"It's Sherlock. The, the person who's been doing this, it's a cab driver, Sherlock's got into his cab. I don't know exactly what's happening!"

Blossom said, "He has the Professor? He can't get away with that. Come on, girls!"

"Wait, you can't just—"

But before he could finish, the girls had flown away so fast that they appeared as just streaks of pink, blue, and green.

John swore again and shook his head. He'd been right—it was like having three more little Sherlocks to keep track of. He swore once more as he realized he'd forgotten his gun. He looked for a cab.

***

"So, you're the one who's been taking people's money and hitting them over the head with, what, that shotgun?"

"That's right, Mr Holmes. Just me and my trusty boomstick."

"You know who I am, then."

"A friend told me where to find you."

 So what's your game?"

"Ain't no game. Just needed me some money."

"Why me, then? I don't carry that much."

"My friend wanted me to give you some _special_ treatment," Fuzzy said darkly. "The others, though, it was just the money. I got to git enough to fix Joe." He nodded toward the banjo. Sherlock peered into the passenger seat and winced when he saw the banjo's sad condition. Whatever his overall thoughts about this creature, Sherlock could sympathize with a musician's feelings about his instrument. Not that he supposed this pink… whatever he was… was much of a musician, but still.

That didn't mean he wanted to be hit over the head and robbed, though, so he began edging toward the door.

"Now don't go nowhere. I got my boomstick pointed right at you."

Sherlock thought if the gun were fired from its current position, it would injure Fuzzy at least as badly as Sherlock, but he didn't want to test it, so he sat still. "That's how you kept the others from panicking too?"

"Nah, they just weren't payin' attention. Didn't even notice till we stopped someplace quiet. Just like right now." Fuzzy had halted the cab in a narrow, dark alleyway. "They never even saw my boomstick before I hit 'em. Git out now."

Sherlock got out. Although he doubted Fuzzy's intelligence, the creature did seem to have some basic cunning, and had parked the cab so that Sherlock couldn't easily avoid him.

Sherlock said, "What I don't understand is why—" but Fuzzy was apparently uninterested in further conversation, because at that moment he hit Sherlock over the head with his gun.

Sherlock staggered. Unlike Fuzzy's earlier victims, he'd been prepared, so he'd managed to partially dodge the blow, but it left him off balance. He could see Fuzzy winding up for a harder blow and was trying to get a hand to a wall to steady himself, when he heard a whooshing noise and Blossom's voice said, "Not so fast, Fuzzy!"

The startling burst of violence that followed was almost too fast for Sherlock to see. The three girls darted and whirled and circled Fuzzy, kicking, jabbing, punching. Sherlock thought he saw a tooth go flying. He definitely saw blood and fur in the air. Fuzzy tried to protect himself, but to no avail.

"That's for stealing those nice people's money!" Bubbles said as she punched Fuzzy's abdomen quite hard, eliciting an "oof!" from him as he folded over.

"And that's for hurting them!" said Blossom as she landed an uppercut on Fuzzy's jaw.

Buttercup yelled, "And _that's_ for messing with the Professor!" as she planted a kick in Fuzzy's posterior that launched him several metres down the alley, where he lay groaning.

John had arrived during the tail end of the fight. He jumped out of a cab and ran up, out of breath.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

"Fine," he said. His head did hurt but he barely noticed it, he was so startled by this demonstration of the girls' abilities. They had said superheroes, but it was different actually seeing it.

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"You're not actually 'fine.' Let me look at that, it's bleeding. What happened?"

"Oh, he hit me. It's nothing."

"Hitting you is _not_ nothing," John said, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like "capital offense" while he glowered and fished in a coat pocket for the antiseptic wipes and sterile gauze he kept there.

Sherlock finally managed to pay proper attention to John, and realized that while he was (as expected) angry, he mostly wasn't angry with Sherlock, and there was something else underlying the anger.

"God, Sherlock, when I got your text I thought…" John couldn't finish.

"It's all right, John. He didn't hit me that hard, nearly missed. I really will be fine."

John pulled him down for a fierce, almost desperate kiss. "You had better be, or that—that pink furball will be very, very sorry."

"I think he's already sorry," Buttercup said, as the girls came up to them.

"What about you three? Let me see." John looked the girls over, but they were obviously uninjured apart from a very slight scrape on Buttercup's arm, which John didn't see and Sherlock didn't point out, because he could tell Buttercup didn't want to be fussed over. "I was really worried about you girls when you dashed off like that. I would hate it if something happened to you." He kept glancing at Sherlock as he spoke, and Sherlock realized, _he means me, too. He isn't good at saying it but he was worried about me too._ Sherlock still wasn't entirely used to having someone else feel that way about him.

Blossom said, "I'm sorry we left so fast but sometimes we just have to when we're fighting crime."

Lestrade arrived on the scene just as Sherlock was saying, "I'm glad they got here when they did, since Fuzzy said he was planning something 'special' for me. I mean," he backtracked a bit, "I'm sure I would have been fine, but the help was still appreciated."

"Well… just be careful, all right?" John said to the girls.

"We will!" they chorused.

Lestrade looked over the scene. "Something 'special'?" he asked.

"Let's ask him what he meant," Bubbles said.

"Yeah, we have him all ready for you!" Buttercup announced. The three girls flew over to where Fuzzy was just trying to sit up. They picked him up and flew back, dropping him unceremoniously at Lestrade's feet. Lestrade handcuffed him.

"So you three are responsible for his condition?"

"He was trying to hurt the Professor!" said Bubbles.

"I see," said Lestrade, looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock said, "I didn't touch him. Never got a chance."

Sherlock explained everything he had learned and everything that had happened. "But I still don't understand," he said, turning to Fuzzy, "why you brought a firearm but then only hit people over the head with it."

"I forgot to bring any ammo," said Fuzzy mournfully.

"And the woman, Ms Clovis," Sherlock continued. "You took maybe forty pounds from her, but left her jewellery. Just her engagement ring would have paid for your banjo repair several times over."

"What?" Fuzzy shouted. "You mean them jewels was worth somethin'? I thought they were just little sparkly things! Consarn it…" and he trailed off into muttered curses and imprecations.

"Told you he was stupid," said Buttercup.

"Quite a feat," Lestrade said.

"What feat?" asked Sherlock.

"For someone to be even more of an idiot than Sherlock Holmes thought he'd be."

Everyone laughed, except Sherlock (though he eventually allowed himself a slight smirk) and Fuzzy (who was alternately swearing at the world generally and lamenting his still-unrepaired banjo).

"But who is this 'friend' of yours who wanted you to give me 'special' treatment?"

Fuzzy only hung his head and sniffled a bit, but a puff of pink smoke in the closed-off end of the alley startled everyone out of further questioning. From the smoke emerged a strange figure. It was ghostly, partially transparent. It was three stories tall and wore tall black boots that reached nearly half that height. It had red skin and red clothing with bits of fluffy pink. Its pointy chin had a curled beard. It was, in short—

"Him!" said Fuzzy.

"That's right, it's me—Him!" the apparition said in a singsong but loud falsetto that echoed round the alley. "Fuzzy, I was so pleased when your delightful new occupation gave me another chance to get at Sherlock Holmes. Of course, I'm disappointed that" –here he switched to his low growly voice for a moment— " _you failed pathetically_ , but I admit I wasn't expecting much from you in the first place." He sighed theatrically. "Good minions are _so_ hard to find."

John, looking murderous, said, "What do you mean 'another chance'? Sherlock, you haven't met this—Him before?"

"Oh, no, Doctor Watson! That's not how I do things. I… _influenced_ Mr Mycroft Holmes, and his academic acquaintances, to get Sherlock his position, and I _influenced_ Sherlock to accept it. All that busywork, you know, would keep _Professor_ Holmes" –he said the title mockingly— "distracted, so that he wouldn't have time to solve crimes, so that he would _keep his nose out of my business!_ The chance to have Fuzzy take care of him more directly and more _permanently_ was merely a bonus."

Sherlock had been slightly stunned by all this, realizing that of course this was the voice he had heard along with Mycroft's urging him to take the job. And worse, he realized that this being, devil or demon or whatever it was, had somehow interfered with his own mind, which was possibly the worst violation of his own self he could think of. This plan would never have worked in the long run, though, and now…

"I'm sorry to tell you," he said, letting his anger show and not sounding in any way sorry, but didn't get a chance to finish because Lestrade jumped in.

"You must not know Sherlock that well if you think anything could distract him from a good case."

"Or me, if you think I'd let you try anything," said John, who was now wearing his angriest expression, the one that looked like a grin but wasn't. Protective John: Sherlock loved it (loved John) when John got that way on his behalf. He decided it wasn't the time to finish explaining the other reason why Him's evil plan wouldn't work.

"Oh, you really think you could stop me? _Don't underestimate me!_ " said Him.

"Well, _we_ could definitely stop you!" announced Blossom. "And even if the Professor and the Doctor are busy, we'll be there to keep you from causing trouble!"

"You Powerpuff Girls _are_ an interesting development, but I guess we'll just see who can stop me, won't we? Until next time! Ta ta for now!" And with that, the apparition faded from view, leaving behind a red mist that coalesced into a narrow ribbon shape and then slithered away down a sewer grating.

"Well," said Lestrade. "If I never see Him again, it'll be too soon. Come on, it's off to jail with you."

Fuzzy said, "Not without my Joe!"

"Sorry, that's evidence, but you'll get it back later. My forensics chief and her team are on their way. They'll collect it." Fuzzy looked crushed. Lestrade turned to John and Sherlock. "You two, come in tomorrow and give statements as usual, right?"

"Five!" said three little voices in unison.

"Yeah, right, you five, then."

"Yes," Sherlock said. He and John were side by side with their arms round one another, trying to calm each other down. They turned to go, but the girls practically charged at them, jumping into their free arms and creating a sort of giant group hug.

"I'm so glad you're all right, Professor," Bubbles said as she clung to John's neck. The other two agreed, as Buttercup perched on Sherlock's shoulders and Blossom settled in Sherlock's other arm (the one that wasn't around John).

As they walked on, Sherlock watched John looking at him with a fond but amused expression. "What?"

John said, "It's just that with Buttercup sitting up there, it's really clear how much you two look alike, curly hair and all."

Sherlock smiled at him and just held tighter to his John and his daughter, taking more comfort from the contact than he ever could have imagined a few years ago.

"So, Angelo's?" he said.

***

Angelo was, indeed, happy to meet the girls. He was also happy to meet Mrs Hudson, who had joined them. After a stop at home to clean up, everyone had walked to Angelo's. John had pointed out that Mrs Hudson had barely met the girls as they dashed out that morning, so he invited her to come along and get to know the girls a little.

Now, the girls were eating a pizza Angelo had made specially for them, while John and Sherlock had pasta and salads. Mrs Hudson was too distracted to eat because Angelo was constantly at their table, apparently flirting with her.

It started when he brought a candle to the table. "Ooh, how romantic!" Mrs Hudson said.

Buttercup made a face, while Blossom said, "I don't think those two even need a candle," nodding at John and Sherlock. They appeared to be holding hands under the table and they looked into each other's eyes a lot.

"But we have four lovely single ladies here, too!" Angelo protested. "I think a candle is just what we need." The girls tittered but Angelo was only looking at Mrs Hudson as he said it.

After that he was at the table every other minute, bringing more wine, appetizers ("just something new I'm trying out, tell me what you think") and desserts. He complimented her dress and explained how Sherlock had helped him with his murder charge. Mrs Hudson, of course, then explained about Sherlock's help with her husband's murder charge, and that set off a discussion about things they'd both got up to in their younger days that left the girls wide-eyed but impressed.

By the time everyone else was ready to leave, Angelo and Mrs Hudson were on a first-name basis. John gathered everyone up, but Mrs Hudson said, "Oh, you all go on home, I'll get a cab later."

John would have protested, but Angelo said, "Don't worry, I'll make sure Martha gets home safely." John had some doubts about this, or at least about exactly whose home was meant and when. But he was hardly going to interfere with Mrs Hudson's social life, so they all exchanged farewells and headed home. Angelo sat down in the newly vacant seat next to Mrs Hudson before the rest of them were even out the door.

"Aw, they're so cute!" said Bubbles.

"Ew," said Buttercup. "You always think everyone is in loooove. It's silly."

"And what's wrong with that, I'd like to know?" Bubbles said.

"Here we go again," Blossom said, rolling her eyes.

John looked at Sherlock and they both giggled. They walked home hand in hand while the girls floated along in front of them, still arguing about the merits, if any, of Romance, as understood by little girls.

***

The girls had been put to bed and John had gone up for one last check on them. They were already asleep, Bubbles clutching the stuffed purple octopus she had named Octi. When he got downstairs, he found Sherlock fiddling with a pipe and a pouch of loose tobacco.

"Since when do you smoke a pipe?"

"Just thought I'd try it out."

"Anyway, I thought you'd quit again. You know that isn't any safer than cigarettes. And you certainly can't smoke it in the house. Or anywhere around the girls."

"Of course not." Sherlock looked offended that John would even think he would entertain such a notion. "And yes, I've mostly quit, but you know every now and then…"

"I know," John sighed. "Well, at least it does sort of fit with your mad scientist image, Professor Holmes."

"I'm not _mad_ ," Sherlock said, mock-outraged.

"You really kind of are, love. But in a good way. Almost expected, for a chemistry professor to be a bit mad, or at least eccentric."

"Er, John. About that."

"Yes?"

"I'm not, technically, a professor any more."

"What do you mean?"

"Dr Hunter. The department head I met with today. She didn't react well to some of the things I said."

"You didn't."

"I thought surely a fellow scientist would be able to accept the truth."

"Don't think it works that way, not when it's the truth about oneself. What did you say?"

"I only pointed out that she was having an affair with her secretary and a student, and that she ought to cut it down to one at a time to avoid trouble. Oh, and I said it was obvious she was hired for her appearance, that she fit some administrator's idea of a female scientist."

"I'm sure she didn't take that very well."

"No. She said that attitude wouldn't get me far in the Chemistry faculty. So I pointed out that they had to have known what I'm like—she's acquainted with Mycroft, after all—and I suggested there must have been some sort of inappropriate influence for me to have been hired in the first place. And I was right, John, you heard this afternoon. But she said if I felt like that, then the University could get on very well without my services. So. Professor no longer." He didn't seem too upset.

"Well, since I would never have expected you to agree to it, and I don't think you would have if nobody had been poking around in your mind, I suppose we're no worse off than we were before it was offered to you."

"No. And we were fine then."

"And we're fine now. Just one thing, though. Can I still call you Professor?" John asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, yes. As long as I can still wear the lab coat, Doctor Watson."

"You should definitely keep wearing the lab coat, Professor Holmes," John said, and grabbed its lapels to pull Sherlock down for a kiss.

***

And so, once again, the day is saved—thanks to the Powerpuff Girls!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've intentionally not explained what exactly happened with the "Did you miss me?" video, and I may never explain it beyond implying that the Situation was Resolved somehow. I also have a headcanon about Him that I decided not to use in this story arc but that may come out later.


End file.
